Verus Visio
by ephemereal
Summary: How was she ever to know, really, what was true and what was not?
1. I

**I.**

_"What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so." _

_--From _Hamlet_ (II, ii, 115-117)_

_

* * *

_

_Afterward, for a few raucous days, his face is everywhere._

_The party is in ruins, grasping desperately at some semblance of leadership or control. There is music in the streets. People throw televisions out windows and put crowbars through computer screens, rejoicing in their reclaimed right to loot, to pillage, to destroy and to defy. At first they see utopia in the chaos, the freedom to do as they please, wherever, whenever. They continue to wear the masks as well, rallying behind the anonymity of notoriety and thumbing their noses at Norsefire's feeble attempts at bringing them back to attention._

_

* * *

_

_The girl called Evey Hammond manages to slip back out of the spotlight under the cover of darkness, watching Detective Finch watch her as she vanishes into the crowd. Instinctively, her feet find their way back to the Shadow Gallery, though she doesn't think she'd be capable of describing its location to anyone else. _

_The musty scent of roses assaults her senses as she makes her way through the darkened interior, never thinking to turn on a light. When she does, the sheer emptiness of the place will become evident._

_

* * *

_

_A few more days pass, and the people begin to be afraid. _

_Across the city, power outages become commonplace. Water runs muddy out of the faucets. Food lies in stinking heaps on the streets and sidewalks, and babies howl with hunger._

_

* * *

_

_Evey walks the corridors at night, warding off sleep as she casts eyes itching with exhaustion and unshed tears over the seemingly infinite collection of forbidden treasures. She has never really taken the time to look at them before as a whole. True, she has spent many a night reading a single book or gazing at a single picture, but she has never taken the time to truly step back and appreciate them altogether. _

_This is important, she senses suddenly, the way the shadows knit together and the music fills the void. The pieces form a world all their own, in harsh juxtaposition with the world aboveground. Up there, everything is cold and hard and controlled. Down here, there is softness and silk, the forbidden delights of a culture long-lost. _

_Two entirely separate worlds._

_Neither one is real._

_

* * *

_

_On the streets, ancient illnesses begin to surface once more, mutated and back with a vengeance. _

_A baby dies of dysentery._

_An old woman huddles in an alley with shreds of a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, a crimson speck of blood on her lips, wracked by the violent paroxysms of tuberculosis._

_A man wakes to find ugly red welts all over his body, and before he knows what has hit him is left lying in a puddle at the side of the road._

_Medical offices and hospitals, once a service provided for all, stand dark and empty, broken windows gaping like hollowed-out eyes of a corpse. People line up outside just the same, rotting into the pavement before anyone takes notice._

_

* * *

_

_At last, Evey comes to the ugly realization that she has seen every inch of the Shadow Gallery. Memorized it too, for she sees it all played out on the backs of her eyelids when she finally gives in to the weariness weighing her down. _

_In her dreams, she hears the music of the jukebox playing—it hasn't been off since that night, for neither of them thought to do it before, and she has no will to now. She feels leather in her hands and silk against her cheek. She sees a cloaked figure standing on a wall, watching as below crowds of people evaporate into a black powder. A wind comes up and the powder blows away, filling the sky and blotting out the sun._

_Evey wakes with a cry, her entire body trembling and drenched in sweat. For days now, she has wandered the Gallery with only a candle in her hand. Now, after a moment's hesitation, she reaches out and switches on the lamp beside her bed. _

_Around her, the stacks of books cast weirdly slanted shadows on the walls. The door hangs open, and she sits up, staring down the empty hallway. The jukebox has stopped playing._

_

* * *

_

_Out of nowhere a fresh strain of St. Mary's Virus arrives, and people begin to die by the hundreds. Bodies covered in alien-looking lesions fill the streets and the stench is nearly intolerable on a hot afternoon. _

_For the first time in nearly a month, Detective Finch ventures outside. He walks through the rubble of what was once Parliament, and passed the burned-out buildings that were the Ear, the Eye, and the Nose._

_At first he expects the people to reach out to him, to try and hold onto any semblance of power left in their world. When they don't, he is struck by the realization that he is glad._

_

* * *

_

_Evey finds her way to the roof eventually, and sits back on the balcony, shielded by the overhang of the roof. She watches the people in the streets below, her heart aching for them, and for far more selfish reasons._

_The people no longer dance or sing in the streets. The violence has all but died out as well. Somehow, though, she does not think this is how it is supposed to work. _

_Instead of building anew, the people lie dying on the side of the road. Their bodies are covered in red lesions, and Evey thinks ironically how much they look like burn victims. Ravaged from the inside out._

_In her mind's eye, she sees a pair of hands._

_

* * *

_

_The masks now lie in piles, heaped in alleys, peeking out of dumpsters. The painted smiles chip and flake off, leaving even the white visage pock-marked and scarred. People shudder at the sight of them now, no longer seeing the rosy cheeks as a symbol of their salvation but of their death._

_Coming upon a stack, Finch pulls one out and dusts it off. He cradles it in his hands, swinging it lightly up and down. It feels cold and heavy, and he cannot imagine learning to live beneath it as a second skin._

_

* * *

_

_Below, Evey finds her way into the makeup room. Here, of all the rooms in the Gallery, she has never felt at ease. She finds what she is looking for on a hook against the back wall—at first it seems impossible that there might be more than one, but then of course there must be—and makes her way to the counter. _

_Sitting before one of the mirrors, she stares into her own eyes and sees reflected in them the pain of the people on the street. They are betrayed as she is, led into battle and cruelly abandoned by the one man who has dared give them hope. _

_Forcing herself to breathe deep, Evey puts the cold metal to her face and fastens the elastic straps over what little hair is beginning to grow back. _

_Opening her eyes, Evey finds that she has fallen into a dream world._


	2. II

**II.**

_"When beggars die there are no comets seen;  
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes." _

_--From _Julius Caesar_ (II, ii, 30-31)_

The first time she wore the mask in public, it felt like an act of gross indecency. She chose the twilight hour, praying that somehow she'd miraculously inherited the ability to vanish into the shadows along with the books and paintings. No one gave her much notice, but still she felt exposed, as though someone would point her out as an imposter at any second. Worse than the prospect of being caught by some remnant of Norsefire was the thought of defiling the memory of the mask's previous wearer.

As Evey stepped over sleeping people huddled in an alley, a heavy black duffel bag slung over one shoulder, she despaired of ever being able to move in her new disguise with anything resembling grace. She was more than a foot too short for the cape, and drowning in black fabric. She could only imagine the humiliation of approaching a quarry only to be caught tripping on her own robes.

She had hoped to wait at least another week before venturing out into public; she knew there was plenty of work to do, and yet she didn't feel that an appropriate mourning period had passed. Still, she had to remind herself that V would be the last person to obey the rules of courtesy when action was sorely needed. And her mission tonight was of more importance than a simple reconnaissance session—she'd been alarmed that morning at just how empty she'd allowed the kitchen cupboards of the Shadow Gallery to become.

Coming to the street corner she'd spent the afternoon watching from the roof, Evey ducked around the side and paused behind a large garbage bin to catch her breath. It was a slightly windy evening, and the scent blowing off the garbage nearly made her choke. Instinctively she reached to cover her mouth, and jumped in surprise when her fingers met with only warm metal. She hadn't taken this kind of thing into consideration. Inwardly, Evey sighed, and turned away from the wind. Obviously, this was going to take more practice than she'd initially thought.

She'd chosen the warehouse because it was one of the few that still had a back entryway. She knew V would probably have found a more stylish way to get the necessities, but considering she'd hardly learned to find her way through the small expanse of underground tunnels without getting lost, theatrics didn't seem a very good idea. The warehouse was normally closed at dusk, a large concrete bunker door lowering to keep out potential looters. There were also security guards who patrolled the perimeter of the building just in case; she'd seen them there the night she'd left.

_Nearly a year ago_. The thought made her breath hitch in her throat, and she momentarily forgot what she was doing there at all.

But the guards had a bottle of vodka tonight, discipline lax in the wake of the present riots, and Evey shook herself, watching one of the guards teeter around laughing to himself, mentally trying to calculate how long it would be before he passed out. She thought that she ought to do something to hurry it up a bit, and silently felt the hilt of the single dagger she'd strapped to her belt before leaving. The prospect sickened her. She'd have to wait it out.

As if reading her thoughts, the man made off toward the alley a moment later, one hand still clutching the vodka bottle, the other unzipping his fly. Evey's stomach turned as he passed her hiding spot, but she took full advantage of the opportunity, knowing it was likely the only one she would get that evening. Her hand still on the hilt of her knife, Evey swept out from behind the garbage bin and into the area for trucks to unload into the warehouse.

The door control switch was flashing red: a malfunction. Thinking that if might be her lucky night after all, Evey gave the 'open' switch a sharp jab. She could always try to get the code out of the inebriated guard, but she wanted as little contact with him as possible. Fortunately, the damaged controls obeyed her command, and the bay door began grinding upward. She had no time to celebrate, however, as she quickly discovered that the controls were far from quiet. The door's track was badly in need of oil, and it produced an awful grinding sound that made Evey press her hands over her ears despite the mask and wig.

"Hey!" The guard came stumbling back at the noise, his fly undone and his shirttail sticking out comically. He tripped over his own heavily-booted feet as he rounded the corner, and Evey quickly jabbed the controls again, bringing the door to a stop barely two feet above the pavement, and rolled under it into the warehouse.

There were no lights on inside, and she had a momentary nightmarish feeling of being dropped into one of her brother's ancient video games. The ones he used to love before…

But she pushed the thought away, and blinked until her eyes adjusted. Now was not the time to get nostalgic; it was not the time for any emotional attachments at all. Evey made her way over to a large cooler against one wall and began shoveling packages of frozen goods into the duffel bag hardly bothering to look what it was she was taking. She'd have to make do with whatever it was she managed to get; over the past year she'd learned to tolerate nearly anything so long as it had a small amount of nutritional value.

A few moments later, she was rolling back out into the night, and this time she didn't even feel the bite of the pavement against her shoulder. The guard had somehow managed to get a bit of his sanity back, and was speaking very quickly into a radio. Evey made a run for it, attempting to slip back into the shadows behind the garbage bin and out through the alley, but for once security was just a hair too fast for her. She'd misjudged for the first, if hardly the last, time in her new career as vagabond.

"Hey!" yelled the one with the vodka bottle again. He made to crack it over her head, but his reflexes were still dulled by the alcohol and Evey ducked easily out of the way.

"Bloody hell, you're the bastard blew up Parliament!" shouted another voice, and Evey turned to find at least ten more of them rounding the corner at a run.

"Yes," she said slowly, hoping the mask would hide the terror suddenly threatening to drive her to her knees. "I am." Something had happened at Victoria Station; it had worn away more than a little of the strength she'd built up during her imprisonment. She found herself afraid again, though for entirely different reasons now. No longer did she fear the compulsion to join in the fight; now she worried that she didn't have the strength to do all that was needed of her.

The guard looked at her strangely for a moment, apparently thrown by the sound of her voice. Evey smiled a bit to herself, gaining confidence. She took the moment to slip a hand beneath her cloak, feeling for the dagger again.

"Stay right there." The guard made up his mind at last and reached for her wrist. Evey flinched away, pulling the dagger out of her belt a bit clumsily.

"Don't touch me." She was swept with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu the moment the words were out of her mouth, but she stamped it out with a vengeance, gritting her teeth at her own foolishness.

"What you gonna do, blow us up?" Another of the guards was advancing as well, and now Evey began to feel cornered. They were closing in fast and she had a brick wall to her back. Wonderful planning once again.

"You don't want to mess with me," she spat, wishing that she could remember even one of the extensive repertoire of quotes she'd heard V use over the past year.

"I think I'll be judge of that," said the guard. He stepped forward boldly, and Evey faltered for just a moment. It wasn't until she felt his hand wrench the edge of her mask that her body sprang back into action, and when it did, it was without a moment's thought. Her arm shot out with panic-speed, and the next thing she knew the dagger had sunk several inches deep into the man's chest.

"Christ!" shouted one of the guards. Any semblance of discipline went all to hell as the group rushed forward toward the fallen man, who was now bleeding profusely onto the pavement.

Evey's hand dropped numbly, and she backed away from the scene, momentarily forgotten by the guards. It was like something out of her worst nightmare. She'd agreed to take over the fight, never to kill. And now…here she was, doing nothing more noble than hunting for food, and she'd already murdered an innocent man. He'd just been doing his job.

Her knees began to buckle, and Evey stumbled as her back bumped the bricks of the wall. When she managed to look up again, the scene in front of her hit her like a punch to the stomach.

Not the sight of the guards, huddled around their fallen companion, but of the other figure. One clothed in a costume identical to hers. And it was standing in the midst of all the chaos, just calmly watching.


	3. III

_**Author's Note: **A word to the wise: do not jump to conclusions about this story. Chances are, you'll be wrong._

_

* * *

_

_**III.**_

"_I must be cruel only to be kind;  
Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind."_

**_-_**Hamlet

* * *

Evey watched, frozen in shock, as the figure pulled a gun. _A gun? _Yes, that was strange, she thought, but perhaps it could yet be explained away. She'd long ago given up trying to predict his strategies…unless…But her thoughts were cut off by the sound of the gun firing, and her ears rang painfully.

The figure—she hadn't dared give it a name yet in her head—fired twice into the crowd of security guards, and two of them fell to the ground, their hands suddenly covered with blood. Evey's hands flew to her head protectively, but the mask and wig blocked her and the gesture did no good. She watched helplessly as the remaining guards scattered, and the figure ran toward her. He—for there was no longer any question in her mind that it was a man beneath the mast—grabbed at her hand and propelled her forward.

"Evey?"

She stood in shock for a moment later, reeling at the sound of her name. Who else could possibly know? Who else might have guessed? She could be anyone now, and yet…She nodded a little, unable to deny herself the motion.

"Go!" The man gave a slight push to the small of her back, propelling her forward and breaking her out of her shock-induced paralysis.

She lurched forward unevenly, narrowly avoiding getting her foot caught in the hem of the black cape, and took off at a run down the darkened street. They were only a few blocks away from the Shadow Gallery, but she had a sudden misgiving as to which direction to go. She could lead him back there, pray that she was right…but that could prove fatal. Instead, she turned in the opposite direction and made for the relative safety of yet another back alley. The shouts of the guards faded behind her as she ran, and she was left with only the footfalls of her mysterious savior echoing in her still-aching ears.

"You," she gasped, coming to a stop with her back against the wall. The man stopped opposite her, breathing hard as she was. Evey sighed beneath the mask, cringing at the strange feel of her own breath fogging the inside of it, and suddenly realizing how strange this confrontation would look to any unknowing bystander. Moreover, how strange it must look to _him _seeing her like this. She hesitated for a moment, then recklessly pulled the mask over her head, knocking the wig askew. After all, he had already guessed her identity, hadn't he?

"Evey, please…"

She held up a hand for silence as fresh waves of déjà vu crashed over her, threatening to overwhelm her fragile composure. Evey stared into the blank sockets of the mask, gauged height, weight, movement…but it was all so hard to judge in the shadows. Like before. She wanted so very much to believe, and yet…

"How do I know it's you?" she asked at last.

"Ah, you assume you know already…" There was something strange about the voice, she thought, but she couldn't put her finger on what.

"I know what you have led me to believe," she answered uncertainly, looking for some explanation, any explanation other than her own wishful thinking.

"Then you'll have to decide for yourself," he said softly, "whether you trust what your eyes and your mind tell you."

"But I don't even know—"

He held up a hand to silence her, then wordlessly pulled something from beneath his cape. He held out one gloved hand to her, something small and rectangular cradled in the black-leathered palm. Evey leaned forward in the dark, straining to bring the object into focus.

"Oh god," she whispered, when her mind finally managed to wrap itself around the sight before her.

It was a small block of wood, painted red on three sides and black on the back and tips. A domino. One of his dominoes. The only one she'd ever seen like it had been on the train…

"How…" She felt as if the breath had been forcibly knocked out of her; she barely had the strength for that single word.

"This is not the time or place," said V, for her mind had already betrayed her, and she no longer had the strength to believe it was anyone else. "We must get you safely home."

"Me?" Evey closed her hand over his, the domino digging into her skin. "Aren't you coming with me?" A slight inclination of the head, the mask dipping toward her now-exposed face, was the only answer she got.

"All your questions will be answered in time. Please, Evey, it isn't safe."

She'd never known V to be fearful, but then perhaps near-death experiences changed things like that. She imagined it would change an awful lot. Nodding quickly in response, she took off in the direction of the Shadow Gallery's entrance, keenly aware of his footfalls on the pavement behind her.

With every echo, every step, every doorway that they passed, Evey felt the shock begin to thaw. He was here, he was right behind her, he had proven his identity to her. Even if he were to take the mask off, she had no way of knowing what he looked like underneath. She had an idea, yes, but he'd proven to her more than once before the dangers of making assumptions. She was sure he'd been dead, had seen it with her own eyes, and yet now…here he was, very much alive and saving her once more.

But why?

He was here now, and apparently unwounded, so why had he let her think he was dying? Why had he let her put his body on the train? And most importantly, if he'd been around all along, why had he waited until now to contact her?

Each new thought brought an acidic surge of anger into her stomach, and by the time they reached the lift that would take them down into the Shadow Gallery, she wanted to stop and tear the mask off his face, hold it hostage until he gave her the answers she demanded. Instead she just stared at him, trying more desperately than ever to see through the slits of the mask, as he stepped into the lift beside her and they began their descent.

The minute they stepped out, V seemed unnaturally awkward. Evey threw the duffel bag of supplies toward the kitchen, and watched as he stared at everything in the Gallery, as if seeing it for the first time. He made his way over to the leather sofa after a moment and perched on the edge of it. Evey stood in front of him, grateful for the slight height advantage his position gave her. She leaned over until she was nearly pressing her forehead to the mask's steel one.

"Now. I think you owe me an explanation." Now that they were indoors and in somewhat better light, Evey could see how different he looked. Everything about him seemed older somehow, worn out. It added a knot of worry to the anger churning her stomach. It was the only thing that kept her from openly attacking him.

"What can I say, Evey? I thought I was dying…"

"Really?" She wanted to believe that he'd been sincere, that he was now, and yet it didn't seem plausible. Not with everything that she'd seen. "So how are you sitting here now? And where have you been for the past month? Hiding in the shadows somewhere? Watching me cry?"

"I do have allies, Evey," he said gently, surprising her. She'd never seen him speak to another person, at least not one that he wasn't about to kill. "I'm sorry for everything that I've put you through, but it was necessary—"

"Necessary!" The word exploded from her lips like a curse, followed by yet another outpouring of the emotions she'd been drowning in since the fifth. "Christ, V, you promised me no more lies! You _promised_!" She sounded like a child throwing a temper tantrum and she knew it, but coherence eluded her and all she could manage was a rough sob.

"Evey, please," he repeated, standing to face her. His voice was slow, soothing, like he was talking to a wounded animal. The pity in it made her sick.

"No! Allies? You told me you worked alone!" Before she knew what she was doing, she'd taken a step forward, closing the distance between them, both fists making contact with the flesh of his chest. She dealt him a few more blows to the shoulders before he grabbed hold of both her wrists and twisted her body so that she fell onto the sofa. The fit of violence past, Evey buried her face in the leather cushions, sobbing convulsively.

"I'll leave you now." The words came with a gloved hand on her shoulder, and Evey stiffened, turning and grabbing it with both of her own.

"Wait. I'm sorry. I just…" She shrugged, feeling ashamed of her own outburst. "I don't know who to trust anymore."

"Evey…" It seemed to be the only thing he knew how to say this night, but the sound of it on his lips didn't comfort her like it normally did. Instead the sound of his voice put a hint of unease in her stomach.

"What happened to you?" she asked at last, shyly. "You sound different."

"Bullets leave scars," he said simply.

Evey nodded slowly, then took hold of his sleeve, pulling him down to sit beside her. He obliged, though he seemed decidedly stiff. She wondered again just exactly what had happened to change him so much in the short time that he'd been gone.

"V…I killed a man back there," she said at last, barely daring to speak the words. Hearing them said aloud made them real, and she wasn't sure if she could handle that yet.

"Yes," he said simply.

"I said I wouldn't kill anyone. I promised myself, and now…" She reached back and grabbed her own mask, which had been hanging behind her head by its straps. "There's something about this thing. It makes people into monsters."

She undid the straps and cradled the thing like it was alive. V held out his hand and took the mask from Evey. He sighed heavily. "A mask has no power of its own. It takes its power from what lies beneath."

"What are you saying? That I have to become a murderer if I want to be of any use to this country?"

"I am saying that you will have to make that decision." He got to his feet suddenly. "And now, Evey, I must go."

"Wait, why?" She jumped up, following him unsteadily, feeling drunk with emotion. "This is your home!"

"Not anymore it isn't," he said simply. He pointed to the mask which was now lying on the table. "This is your legacy now."

"V, I don't want you to leave again!"

"Ah, but absence makes the heart grow fonder." He tipped his hat to her. "I will return." And then he was gone, into the lift and away.

Evey fell helplessly back onto the couch, feeling completely drained. She'd gone out to get food and had her world shattered for the second time in a month. Unwilling to think anymore about it, or even move, she stretched out on the couch, pulling the thick fabric of the cape tight around her shoulders. For once she was grateful for its length. Closing her eyes, Evey inhaled, imagining that she could still smell the scent of him on the sofa's leather cushions. She was asleep within minutes.

She dreamed of a mask which spat roses from the eye slits and sang songs of lost and lonely things.


	4. IV

**Author's Note:** Thank you for all of the reviews on the last chapter. Some of you heeded my warning, some of you didn't. I'll add that while you may guess, and I love to hear what you're thinking, I'm not going to respond to any theories, right or wrong. 

**IV.**

_"Heroism on command, senseless violence, and all the loathsome nonsense that goes by the name of patriotism - how passionately I hate them!_ " -Albert Einstein

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* * *

_

_Topside, the gears are still turning. The people have grown apathetic where the revolution is concerned, and no one has appeared to efficiently take the reins. Instead, there is talk again of Norsefire. Of the need for a return to order._

_Funny, how the oppressive government suddenly seems attractive in comparison to the suffering the people have bought themselves._

_Word of Sutler's death finally becomes official as Dascomb gets smart. In an attempt to regain the people's good faith, he makes a public announcement._

_The people gather around the public viewing screens because there is no power in their homes. _

_"Good evening, London," says the perfectly manicured Dascomb, taking a page out of a wiser and better man's book. "Allow me to thank you for your time and attention. I bring you breaking news regarding the recent incidents of disorganization."_

_Somewhere in the crowd, obscenities ring out. Nobody bothers to turn and look. Words of anger have become the new soundtrack for the rebirth of London. On the screen, sixty feet of Dascomb's face continue to smile implacably._

_"The difficult truth, which I regret I must divulge to you in the spirit of honesty, is that Chancellor Sutler was found dead early this morning. The damage to his body showed that he had likely been dead for several weeks." Dascomb grimaces politely, a man wracked with passion for his country. "The _ugly_ truth is that he was betrayed by one of our most trusted leaders. It appears that Mr. Creedy became overzealous in his love for England. He worried about the Chancellor's ability to cope with recent events, and felt that he had to take action in the country's best interest. He did as he did not because he loved Chancellor Sutler any less, but because he loved England more."__1_

_Another dramatic pause for effect. In the crowd, people are growing restless. From somewhere far back, a stone flies at the screen._

_"Mr. Creedy has been subsequently punished for his actions," assures Dascomb, smiling once more. "Actions are being taken to ensure a swift return to normality. I know that we may be assured of the support of each and every one of you. If you are ashamed to stand by your colors, you had better seek another flag._"2

_There is, conspicuously, no mention of the Terrorist or the Revolution. More rocks fly from the crowd. As sparks begin to fly, the screen goes black._

_

* * *

_

_"Something the matter, Chief?" asks Dominic, as Finch shucks off his coat like a tired stalk of corn. "You've been looking ill since…" He trails off._

_"Anyone who has not been feeling ill lately," says Finch ominously, "is seriously lacking in conscience." He shuffles his way over to Dominic's desk, suddenly looking like a very old man._

_Dominic flinches a little as Finch catches sight of the mask that's been lying on his desk since the fifth. He has wondered repeatedly what devil drove him to wear the thing, yet he does not regret his decision. There is something deeply satisfying in knowing what he has done, particularly in knowing that it was honest, a claim Dascomb will never be able to make. _

_"What is this, Dominic?" The older man picks up the grinning piece of plastic and contemplates the inside of it for a moment. He cocks his head at the jammer sitting on his partner's desk._

_"I uh…it's mine, chief." _

_"Yours, Dominic?" The barest hint of a smile softens Finch's weary features. "Is there something you ought to be telling me?"_

_"I wore it," says Dominic firmly. "To Parliament, on the Fifth. I'm surprised nobody else knows about it yet."_

_Absently, Finch holds it up to his face and looks at his young partner through the eye slits. "You're very lucky in that regard, Dominic. Perhaps you've more people looking out for you than you thought."_

_"Come on, chief," scoffs Dominic. "You've never been one to go for that religious crap."_

_"You're right, of course," says Finch, handing back the mask and taking his seat at last. "What's today's order of business?"_

_"Riot during Dascomb's address, or so the hearsay goes." Dominic hands Finch a picture of the crowd, taken by a surveillance camera. Far back in the assemblage is a dark-haired man, his arm outstretched and a rock in his fist. In the picture, someone has circled his head with a red marker._

_"Just one man?" asks Finch, taking the photo. Of course their job must continue; they will help in the return to order. Yet he is not ready yet, not ready to put behind him the life-shaking events of the past year. He has not gotten his answers yet, and no matter how many times he tells himself it's finished, he finds that he just can't let go._

_"Retinal identification?" He has a feeling it wouldn't be on his desk were it that simple a matter._

_Dominic shakes his head. "Unfortunately not, chief. The picture's good enough, but there appears to be some kind of genetic anomaly. Doesn't match anything in our database."_

_"Damn it," says Finch, a knot of acid frustration surfacing in his stomach. It has been his constant companion of late. "Seems to be our luck lately, doesn't it?"_

_"We're never going to find the bloke out there," says Dominic, and Finch knows that he is right. "Nothing but a bloody photograph, and he's one in a million dissidents right now."_

_"I know, Dominic," says Finch tiredly. "But we'll put up a good front trying."_

_Looking at the mask on Dominic's desk, Finch thinks that perhaps the man deserves his freedom more than they deserve their jobs._

_

* * *

_

_In the streets, a masked figure watches as the screen sparks and pops. The people have turned on each other suddenly, searching for the man who has started the stone throwing. He is alone in a crowd of hundreds, and yet somehow they manage to pinpoint him almost instantly. Strange, how a mob can locate an individual so much more efficiently than the Finger's most advanced technology. _

_Quickly, the crowd collapses in on itself as the rioters make a beeline for the man. They are out for blood._

_With a swish of black fabric, the figure dives into the crowd._

_

* * *

_

1 Inspired by Shakespeare's _Julius Caesar_.

2 Author Unknown


	5. V

**Author's Note:** So again, I know that this is a chapter you all will jump to conclusions about. I'm going to hope that I've proven myself to you with the previous chapters, and that you'll stick with me and know that there is a method to my madness. I can't tell you anything more without giving things away, but let me assure you that I abhor cliched writing. I'll say it one more time: this is not what you think it is. Please trust me.

Many thanks to the brilliant Rouen French, for editing help with this impossible chapter.

* * *

**V.**

_A great war leaves the country with three armies - an army of cripples, an army of mourners, and an army of thieves. German Proverb_

It was like diving headfirst into a tidal wave. Or so she imagined, for Evey had never had the pleasure of meeting such a wave. Hadn't even seen the ocean, as a matter of fact, except in movies and on television.

Her ears were immediately assaulted by the noise of the crowd, and somehow the muffling effect of the mask gave her the strange sensation of hearing it all under the water. A shout, and suddenly all eyes were turned on her, and she was struck once more by the infamy bought by the disguise that had once made V anonymous. A hundred hands reached out, all grappling at the cloak and she realized suddenly that she still had not hemmed the damn thing. A fist pounded on the forehead of the mask, and gold stars danced before Evey's eyes as the impact jarred her.

And then just as suddenly, in the midst of all the shouting and jostling and anger which surrounded her, Evey found the calm. It hit her like the dizziness after inhaling the nerve gas used to quiet protesters, and for just a moment, her eyes fluttered closed behind the mask.

She was standing on the rooftop again, V's cloak hovering just above her shoulders, but she didn't want it, didn't need it anymore. She was shucking it off like the protective instincts she'd wrapped herself in since her parents' deaths. She was standing with her hands outstretched, feeling the electric crackle of lightning in the air and drinking it in like one of V's books. There was no danger anymore.

When she opened her eyes again, Evey saw her path through the crowd. She saw the man who had started the riot, her target, still standing with his fist clenched around thin air. She stood still a moment longer, just long enough to see a woman moving up behind him with a rock of her own. Just long enough to see him fall unconscious.

Moving forward again, Evey felt that everything was different. Sharper, somehow. Clear. The people in her way were just pawns, like the ones she'd become accustomed to knocking down on V's chessboard night after night as he endeavored to teach her. Her hand came to rest on one of the daggers in her belt, then another. Still running, she pulled them both out and held them crossed in front of her, using them like a rudder to steer herself through the now-parting mob. If she had to use the knives, it would not be to murder outright. Whatever move she made now would simply bring her closer to her goal. With her newfound sight, Evey saw in absolutes. Good and bad, innocent and guilty. It didn't matter. If they were in her way now, they must be connected to the evil that was the reassertion of Norsefire.

By the time she'd made it to the place where the man had fallen, there was blood smeared on her leather gloves, but Evey hardly noticed. Having seen her march of terror thus far, the people scattered as she knelt beside the body. There was blood matted into the back of his dark hair, but it was obvious from the way his chest was heaving that the man was far from dead. Good.

She took her time as she looked back up, her movements deliberately authoritative. She lingered a long moment, her eyes searching the crowd for what she needed behind the protection of the mask. When she'd found it, she paused a moment more to consider her options. She knew she'd be given away the moment she spoke, but she doubted it would really matter at this point. The people had seen what she was capable of; she was still holding the two daggers in her hands now, though they were far from gleaming silver anymore.

"You," said Evey, pointing at a rather large man who was standing on the edge of the crowd. His face was riddled with piercings and tattoos, clearly meant to threaten. "Come here."

There was a pregnant pause during which they sized each other up. She could tell he was contemplating whether to run, but Evey knew she'd won the crowd over with her bravado. This whole mess had been started by a man in a mask, after all. Now they were all out for blood, regardless of whose it was. They weren't about to let the thug she had her eye on go without a show.

Defiantly, the man hulked forward, towering over Evey as she continued to kneel beside the body of her new captive. She moved quickly, before he'd even come to a standstill, up on her toes behind him and crossing her daggers in front of his throat.

"Carry this man. Try anything funny and you'll have a fresh bit of metal in your skin." She held her breath for a moment, wondering if she would really kill the thug should he disobey. It was a strange sensation, really, ordering someone about who was so much bigger than she was.

Silently, the thug knelt down and draped the fallen man over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. He straightened, grunting slightly under the weight and gave Evey a look that grudgingly asked for further direction.

"That way," said Evey, cocking her head. She waited for the man to start walking, then took up a couple of steps behind him, the daggers poised and ready. But she quickly found they weren't necessary; the mob had suddenly quieted, parting around them with a strange reverence.

Directing her strange entourage through twisting and turning back alleys in an effort to ensure their loss of bearing, Evey silently thanked god that none of the people from the crowd had followed. The last thing she needed was to compromise her own hiding place by trying to do a good deed. She wasn't sure why she'd become so intent on saving this man, and yet somehow she knew that she had to do it. The moment she'd seen him, standing alone in the crowd and daring to speak out though it was so blatantly ineffective, it had struck a chord in her. She ached with the need to do _something_, to prove herself. To give V a reason to come back again. Silently, she wondered why he hadn't attempted to contact her again in the week since his visit.

"Put him down here," said Evey, when they had come within a block of the entrance to the lift and she was certain nobody was watching them.

"Here? In the street?" The thug looked confused, but complied.

"Thank you," said Evey coolly. "And now, I am really very sorry for this. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.1"

"What?" The man looked momentarily panicked, but Evey didn't give him time to act. With a flick of her wrist, she turned one of the daggers in her gloved fingers and clocked him soundly with the blunt end of it. He fell to the pavement with a heavy wet sound.

* * *

The first thing she noticed was the gloves. She'd managed to drag the man into the lift and onto the Shadow Gallery's leather couch, silently praying that her clumsy treatment wouldn't further exacerbate his wounds. Now, assessing the damage to his body, her eye was caught by the place where the sleeves of his plain white shirt vanished beneath brown leather. It wasn't so strange to wear gloves anymore; many people had taken to protecting their hands since the new outbreak of St. Mary's. But still, every time she saw the garments, they brought a pang to her heart. 

_There is only the illusion of coincidence._

Little else about the man was remarkable, though he was slightly exotic-looking—dark hair, heavy brows, long lashes—but there was an intensity about him that drew her eyes to his face even as he lay unconscious. Holding her breath, Evey brushed light fingers over his forehead, feeling the clamminess of his skin.

Biting her lip and giving in to the temptation that had been nagging at her for years now, Evey took hold of the cuff of one of the gloves, meaning to pull it off. As soon as her fingers brushed the skin underneath, the man's whole body tensed into consciousness and he made a sound deep in his throat, an unintelligible expression of emotion. Evey jumped back, terrified for nothing.

She didn't know how he could possibly have come around so quickly; perhaps the injury he'd sustained from the rock was not as great as she'd previously thought. He'd managed to sit up, though a little shakily, by the time Evey had collected herself to look at him again. Remembering something about head injuries she'd read in a book, Evey's eyes darted immediately to his, and what she saw there made her forget the words she'd finally found. His eyes were pale, too pale, light like a blind man's, but too rich to be blue. And she was quite certain from the way those not-quite-violet eyes were searching her face that he was not blind.

"Thank you," he said simply. It didn't give her much to go on, but Evey somehow sensed a deep sincerity in his words. His voice was soft, and had a strangely foreign sound to it, though she couldn't quite identify it. "Thank you, for my life."

Evey's cheeks burned, and she groped for the mask, only to remember that she'd taken it off just after entering the Gallery. _Careless. _But no matter, as she didn't intend to let him leave anytime soon. She'd learned one thing well, and that was the extent of commitment a good deed like this one required. Otherwise she'd be getting them both killed somewhere down the line.

"I…it was nothing," said Evey, struggling to regain the control she'd felt just moments ago. Something about this man's eyes had managed to completely disarm her in one glance. "You might not be so grateful for it later."

"I can no other answer make, but, thanks, and thanks."2

Evey paused for a moment, taken aback. She couldn't identify the quotation, but she'd certainly recognized it for what it was. Her heart did a funny little flip-flop in her chest as the suspicion began to rise in her stomach. Another trick? Some further mad test of her loyalty?

"Who are you?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

"My name is Lennox Wilmore." There was a strange lilt in his voice, and Evey wondered for a moment whether he was mocking her. The name sounded too familiar, she was certain she'd heard it somewhere before—in a book?—but again she couldn't place it.

"Okay," she said at last. "And why the gloves?"

With a jerk of his hand, he pulled one of them off, wincing slightly. The skin of his hand was badly blistered and cracked. A fresh injury. Evey started to breathe again.

"Chemical burns," he said. "My retribution for attempting to break into the Finger."

Evey let out a puff of air, suppressing incredulous laughter. "You broke into the Finger? Really?" She doubted whether even V would have the audacity. Or perhaps it was brashness. Lennox only nodded solemnly. "And why were you throwing rocks at Mr. Dascomb's address?"

"Because the man's a bloody bastard."

Evey did laugh then, relief washing over her. Perhaps he wouldn't be quite so resistant to her plans for him after all. He regarded her with the barest hint of a smile, his skin seeming very pale in contrast with the luminance of his eyes. It suddenly struck Evey that she'd completely forgotten he was injured.

"Are you feeling all right?" she asked hurriedly. "Looked to me like that rock hit you pretty hard. I'm not a doctor, but I can offer you basic first aid if you need it." Silently, she prayed that he wouldn't need more. She wasn't sure how to go about getting him into a better facility without compromising them both.

"I'm fine." He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers coming away with a hint of dried blood, but no sign of any major damage. Evey scrambled to hand him a box of tissues from the end table. He smiled suddenly. "Thanks to you."

Evey stared at him, memories flooding over her. She felt dizzy, unable to catch her breath.

"May I ask your name?" asked Lennox after a moment, breaking the silence.

"I'm Evey," she said, suddenly feeling the urge to proclaim it like a title. She'd become one of the most known individuals over the past weeks, after all. "Evey Hammond."

"Ah. Then it is my honor." He held out one gloved hand for her to shake. Evey hesitated, lost in thought, and he dropped his hand just as she had begun to reach for it. She felt her cheeks burn, and locked her gaze onto the tv remote which was sitting on the table. She'd never been good with awkward moments.

"You've neglected to consider several things," said Evey, shame turning to anger, and then to power.

"And what's that?"

"You thanked me for your life, but you've no idea what I'm going to do with you now."

"No, but I do know that you are concerned enough to offer me medical attention. I very much doubt that you would do that if you intended to kill me."

Evey narrowed her eyes at him, getting the feeling that he just might be able to call her bluff. She didn't like it one bit. "Maybe I mean to torture you," she countered, "probe you for information. You are, I'm sure, a wanted man. In fact, if I didn't know better I'd guess you were a revolutionary."

"But I know that you are as well, and therefore consider myself quite safe in your hands." Lennox quirked an eyebrow at her, and Evey felt the sudden urge to throw something at him.

"I am," she said at last. "And that's why I've got to worry about the secrecy of this location. You're a threat, and that's why you'll stay locked away with the rest of my treasures." Evey gestured to the various pieces of art scattered about the room. She felt a pang at calling them her own, but V had made no move to reclaim the Gallery. She shrugged off the guilt.

"Do you mean to say that I'm your prisoner?" asked Lennox, his features suddenly hardening. "How exactly do you intend to keep me?" His eyes swept slowly over her body, a look which clearly stated he could pick her up and throw her several feet if he wanted to. It sent a chill down Evey's spine.

"Because, _Lord_ Wilmore," she said derisively, "you've nowhere to go but straight into a black bag." She was bluffing again and knew it, but she needed time to build up the courage for what she was about to do next. "And because," Evey reached suggestively for the daggers on her belt, "you need to be laid up for a while."

* * *

1 Mahatma Gandhi 

2 William Shakespeare


	6. VI

**_Author's Note: _**_As always, thanks to the lovely Rouen French for beta. If you haven't read **Vantage Point**, go do it, as I have now officially adopted it. _  


**_VI._**

_When leaders act contrary to conscience, we must act contrary to leaders. Veterans Fast for Life_

"You've been careless, Evey."

She whirled to face V, her cheeks burning, the news report on the television babbling on unwatched. He'd been completely absent for the first two weeks following his reappearance, so that she had nearly begun to believe herself hallucinating. She'd done everything in her power ot prove herself a diligent apprentice, but if he'd been watching, he'd chosen to ignore her. Now he'd come barging in, in the dead of night, chastising her from the moment he'd set foot inside the Gallery.

"You were recorded on countless surveillance cameras. The entire crowd saw you. You could have been followed."

"I had your mask on," protested Evey. "That was always good enough for you. And I took the back way in. I do know how to be careful." She sounded like a temperamental child again and knew it, but she couldn't help herself. He was being completely unfair to her, and she wasn't about to let it go. If he was going to be impossible, then she wouldn't let him have an inch. "And who are you to tell me about caution? You with your music and your bloody fireworks!"

"You are not ready to take those kinds of risks," said V, maddeningly patient as always.

"Really? Then I suppose all of England can just sit around waiting while I come of age," Evey snapped back.

"Careless leadership is far worse than none at all," said V. "One need only take a peek into the annals of history to know that."

"I'm not stupid!" Tears of rage were forming now, hot and acidic in her eyes.

_How dare he? How fucking dare he._

"What am I supposed to do, sit around watching your roses grow while everything goes to hell up there? And where the bloody hell are you? Polishing your daggers while people die because of _your_ revolution?" Evey had to fight the urge to run, flight always being her response when she'd adequately attacked her opponent. The momentary flash of clarity was gone, and suddenly her knees felt weak.

What had she just said to him? For the life of her she couldn't remember, but the mess of knots in her stomach told her it was certainly worthy of his total abandonment of her. Evey braced one hand on the back of the couch, awaiting his rebuttal, certain she would collapse if he responded with even the slightest anger.

"The wheels are turning," said V quietly. "They will come out right. They do not require direction."

"How can you be so sure?" asked Evey incredulously. "Have you looked up there recently? I mean obviously you have if you're so ready to tell me of my carelessness, but honestly! People are dying. And Dascomb's address? I don't think anyone's ever been so glad to see the rat before."

"I am quite sure," said V dismissively. He moved to stand in front of the couch, and Evey felt a sudden and inexplicable unease at his height and the way he was carrying himself.

"Are you sure you're all right?" she asked hesitantly, suddenly fearing that her words had cut deeper than she'd intended. If she'd attacked him when he was already down--

"Quite fine," he answered quickly, and then gestured at the television screen where the news was still prattling on, oblivious to the confrontation going on in front of it. A missing persons report scrolled across the screen, backed by photos of the riot at Dascomb's address. Evey's stomach clenched uncomfortably as she caught sight of her own masked figure, though the image had played every night for a week. Perhaps V did have a point, but she certainly wasn't ready to concede it.

"Where is the man you 'rescued'?" asked V, as though reading her thoughts.

Evey balked at answering him. She'd originally intended to use Lennox as a sort of trophy to prove to him both her aptitude and her loyalty. But if he was going to admonish her for her good deeds...well, she just wasn't going to stand for it.

"What makes you so certain he's down here?" said Evey stubbornly.

"If he is not down here then you have made an exceedingly stupid mistake and are most certainly doomed. However, as you have gotten on thus far, I assume that you are not so unintelligent and you do have your captive down." He crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture that suddenly seemed menacing to Evey. "It is time to end these meaningless games, Evey. Answer me straight--where is the man?"

"I would assume he's referring to me?"

Evey whirled to find Lennox standing behind the sofa, regarding them with something resembling amusement. She'd found his expressions exceedingly hard to read, whether it was the strange paleness of his eyes or the speed with which emotions seemed to flit across his features she could not say. He was fully dressed thought it was the middle of the night, almost as if he'd been expecting to find them out here. And she couldn't for the life of her figure out how he'd managed to sneak up on them so silently. Even V looked surprised in the tension of his movements, and she couldn't recall a time she'd ever seen him truly caught off-guard.

"I am," said V, and Evey was struck once more by the strange contrast of their voices.

"Then you should address me directly," said Lennox, a hint of danger in his voice. "Avoid unnecessary confusion."

"You are not frightened by me?" asked V. His voice sounded strange, though unreadable, and Evey felt sick at the prospect of a confrontation between the two of them. She sensed that Lennox was considerably more formidable than he'd appeared at the riot. He'd been skulking about the Gallery for the past week behind a poorly constructed façade of placidity. Biding his time, Evey was sure.

"No," said Lennox simply.

"Yet you do fear my successor." V gestured to Evey. "Or else what are you still doing down here?"

"It is considerably more comfortable here than it is topside. And my motivations have nothing to do with fear," said Lennox. "That is all you need to know."

"So you do have an agenda then," said V.

"You could say that." Lennox laughed, and Evey felt a chill run through her. She had the sudden feeling that she'd fallen into one of V's old horror movies, the kind she'd never cared to watch but that he'd insisted were an essential part of cultural history.

"May I ask exactly what you plan to do?" said V.

"No," said Lennox again. He was the only person Evey had ever seen refuse V without dying on the spot. She felt the need to intervene, but wasn't sure at this point which of them to support. She'd been in a bad spot either way, and so instead she simply kept quiet. "You may simply know that you will approve."

"And how may I be sure of that?" asked V, though there was a strange sound in his voice.

_Fear?_ thought Evey. She'd never seen him afraid before, not even when he'd looked death in the face. A wave of shame caught her off-guard, shame for him.

"You can't be," said Lennox, and took a step closer to them. Evey felt every muscle in her body tense, and sensed that V had reacted similarly. But she sensed nothing of the power from him that she'd seen before in times of danger. Tonight he seemed more geared to fly than fight, and she wondered for what seemed the hundredth time just how badly he'd been injured by the bullets.

In one fluid motion, Lennox had taken the sword from the suit of armor that stood off to the side and behind the couch. Evey caught her breath; she'd barely registered that he'd moved before he was standing in front of the television, sword in easy range of either one of them.

"I have no time for this," said V contemptuously. With a ridiculous flourish of his cloak, he took off toward the lift.

"Sod off, old man," called Lennox after him.

Evey gaped, unable to believe that V would fail to retaliate. She'd half expected him to dart out and bend the sword in half. Instead he was going to retreat, leaving her with her rebelling captive? She fought the animalistic urge to spit at him; if he was so damn determined to abandon her, then she didn't want him around.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" Suddenly feeling reckless, Evey whirled on Lennox. His eyes glinted dangerously in the light, and as she heard the clank of the lift returning to the level of the Gallery, her mind registered that he had not yet put down the sword. Perhaps he didn't mean to at all.

"Teaching you a lesson," said Lennox simply, taking another step toward her.

"Come near me with that thing and I'll—I'll—" Evey groped at her waistband, realizing she'd failed to take the dagger belt she'd been carrying off her bedside table in her haste to greet V.

"You'll do what, exactly?" He advanced another step, testing her she was sure. "Run?"

"I will not run," said Evey stubbornly. Even through the fear churning her stomach, she couldn't believe he was really about to kill her. It would, after all, have been much simpler to murder her in her sleep at some point over the past week.

"Then you are as rash as the old man suggested," said Lennox, still coming slowly closer.

"Stop calling him that," snapped Evey. "And you're not doing anything that I need to run from."

"No?" Very deliberately, he extended the sword to brush against the skin of her throat. "What if I did this? Then what would you do?"

The sting of pain and the shock of cold metal startled Evey, sending her catapulting backwards over the arm of the couch. She landed painfully on the thinly carpeted floor, and for a moment her vision was obscured by black spots. When she looked up again, Lennox was standing over her, sword once more outstretched.

"You find yourself in a very poor situation, Evey Hammond." Lennox laughed, and bent down, looping an arm roughly about her waist and pulling her unceremoniously back to her feet. She swayed there as he let go, hoping the onslaught was over, but the sword came back up a moment later, advancing toward her once more. "Now will you retreat?"

"I'd be stupid not to," gasped Evey, backing slowly away, her gaze glued to the floor as her cheeks burned with a combination of fear and shame.

"Very good," said Lennox, though he did not show any sign of relenting. "You've learned your first lesson then."

"I'm a quick study," gasped Evey, struggling to keep her balance as she moved blindly backwards.

"Pride is the downfall of every hero," said Lennox, a bizarre smile twisting his features. He looked strangely macabre in the low light, and Evey shuddered, wondering what it was that had evoked such a look. He looked like a hawk about to come in for the kill.

"Checkmate," said Lennox, and extended the sword as Evey's shoulder-blades hit the wall.


End file.
